


forged in the crucible of your desire

by provocatelle



Series: forged in the crucible of your desire [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Body Modification, Butt Plugs, Chastity Device, Daddy Kink, Drugs, Dubious Consent, Enthusiastic Consent, F/M, Female Stiles Stilinski, Feminization, Forced Feminization, Genderswap, Kidnapping, Kinda, M/M, Manipulation, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Pseudo-Incest, Stockholm Syndrome, Unreliable Narrator, Vibrators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-11-28 10:16:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20964899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/provocatelle/pseuds/provocatelle
Summary: After losing his daughter, something in Chris breaks beyond repair.The first time Chris makes love to his daughter is three months after her arrival in France.He stopped drugging her weeks ago, instead giving her a placebo each morning. She doesn’t know it, but now she’s submitting to him of her own free will. Every time she obeys a command, every time she says “yes, daddy” and lets him manhandle her—it’s all entirely consensual.Stéphanie has been so good all day, calling him daddy and twirling in her little lace sundress when he asked, so Chris was generous with the use of the vibrator. He reels her in by her waist, presses her body against his so that she can feel how much he wants her. By nightfall, she’s breathing heavily, flushed and squirming in her silk panties.





	forged in the crucible of your desire

**Author's Note:**

> please heed the tags! this fic is strongly inspired by 'Stéphanie' by Udunie, which started me on the descent into hell. most of part 1 is built upon it, whereby chris kidnaps stiles after allison's death. part 2 onwards is an expansion of the au. dishes mentioned are from hannibal 
> 
> see y'all in the fire, sinners

The first time Stéphanie tries to escape, Chris can’t bring himself to punish her. It’s more his fault than hers, after all, he reflects with sincere regret as he forces the chloroformed rag to her face, feeling her trembling body rapidly stilling beneath him.

It’s an eerie repeat of the first time he saw her, sedated and passed out on Deaton’s table. She had been so raw then, but so full of potential. And, like that first time, he undresses her, gives her another shot (since she can’t swallow the pills), and latches the chastity belt shut around her waist. It is quickly followed by white lace panties and a matching bralette.

When she comes to, she’s all hazy again, like in those first few weeks together. The drugs make her feel perpetually on the edge of a flu, weak and slightly feverish and—most importantly—mellow. He strokes her hair and is gratified when she leans into the touch.

“What’s your name, baby?” he asks.

“Stiles—”

Chris slaps her. “Come again, darling?”

“Stéphanie.” She doesn’t mangle the accent as much as she did the first time.

“Good girl.”

He explains gently that she has a new velvet choker now, wine-dark and with a clasp embossed with the Argent family fleur-de-lis, that she can’t ever take off. If she gets too far from him—or the house—it’ll deliver 40,000 volts of electricity into her. 

“And we don’t want that, do we?”

“Chris, _please—_” He slaps her again, harder this time.

She changes tacks. “_Thank you_… for coming to—to find me. Daddy.”

“Of course, baby girl.” He noses into her hair. “I’m never letting you go.”

“No, daddy,” she agrees softly. Her amber eyes are glazed and slightly unfocused.

#

The second time she tries to escape, Chris does punish her. He catches her just as she reaches the boundary of the property, still in her tiny red bikini, driving him to distraction as he seizes her from behind by her throat. She had snuck away during her swim, while his back was momentarily turned, and she’s still slippery in his arms. He tightens his grip around her lovely slender neck, crushing her to him in a firm chokehold and using his height advantage to lift her slightly off the ground. She struggles futilely, her hands catching on his hair and her nails scrabbling over his biceps. He nuzzles in closer until their cheeks are pressed against each other almost lovingly, like an embrace. He tightens his arms. She goes limp.

Silly girl. Even if she’d managed to get past the state-of-the-art security system and the eight-foot-tall fence, what would she do then? She’s doesn’t speak French. She doesn’t even know which part of France they’re in, surrounded as the Argent manor is on all sides by hills and endless woods, stretching as far as the eye can see.

He drags her back into the house, and this time, he doesn’t drug her into compliance. When she comes to, he strokes her cheek tenderly and tells her she’s lost her swimming privileges for the next two weeks. Her eyes well up with tears. Then he bends her over his knee and spanks her, hard, yanking her dress up and increasing the frequency and intensity of the slaps until her entire bottom is flushed and rosy. She’s crying silently.

Then he reaches for the paddle.

#

After that, Stéphanie learns her lesson. She becomes his good little girl again, which is all he wants—to protect her and keep her safe where he wasn’t able to, with—Allison.

He swallows around the lump in his throat, and to distract himself, fixes his eyes upon Stéphanie, doing yoga on a mat in the living room.

This is the shape of her days: he wakes her up every morning, knocking on her door and then slipping into her bed to rouse her. Half-asleep, her body is pliant and warm, and Chris wants nothing more than to be able to slip his cock in her, but he forces himself to wait. He wants their first time to be when she’s wide awake and completely sober.

Her body is developing perfectly, thanks to Deaton’s medication, but Chris knows sometimes his little darling’s nipples hurt from the strain of rapid development. They’ve grown into small breasts now, perfect for his sweet girl. He kneads them gently, pressing down on the soft flesh with firm fingers. He’s getting hard already. She moans, arching into his touch, until the pain ebbs.

She always looks so guilty when she lets him do that, but he reassures her that daddy is there to make her feel good.

Their housekeeper and cook, Mme Forgeron, makes them breakfast, which they eat together in the dining room, then Stéphanie likes to do some yoga before she has to put her corset back on. Waist-training is not the most comfortable thing in the world, especially in such a rigid and heavily boned one, but Chris had declared it non-negotiable as he pulled the cords tight and laced it up her spine. He’d bought several in white and nude colors, because he likes the way it looks on her, shrinking her waist and pushing her breasts up, giving her an impeccable hourglass shape.

She’s allowed to use the iPad to watch yoga tutorials on YouTube—every other app is locked otherwise. She’s become quite good at it, after doing it daily for a few months, and it shows. She starts in _dhanurasana_, before stretching out into a flawless king pigeon pose. He can see her core muscles rippling in _navasana_. Her figure is lean and increasingly pared back, her muscles are taut and firm.

Chris palms his cock through his trousers, then holds the newspaper up a little higher so that she can’t tell he’s watching her over the tops of it.

She eases out of downward dog and pads off to the shower to rinse off from the morning’s exertions, and her loving father cinches her waist in, and puts her in a dress he picked out. It’s one of his favorite parts of the day, deciding what she gets to wear. While planning for his daughter’s stay, he’d gone a little overboard with the shopping, he was so excited to have a little girl again. And now the wardrobe in her room is full to bursting with pretty dresses, frilly blouses, crop tops and miniskirts in a variety of pastel colors and charming floral prints. He favors lace, silk and cotton, to keep her cool and comfortable in the heat.

Clad in a sundress patterned with little embroidered lemons, she sits down for lunch with him—_langue d’agneau en papillotes _with a sauce of _duxelles _and oyster mushrooms. He keeps one hand clasped around her slim thigh the whole time, even when that makes eating tricky.

Afterwards, Stéphanie goes to the library to read. When Chris began renovating the manor, the library was one of the first rooms he had refurbished, repanelling it and removing all traces of dust and stacking it high with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Now it’s cosy, the ultimate hideout, complete with lush carpets and huge armchairs. On the lower shelves are all the books meant for her—romances and chick lit and fantasy novels. The monsters will never find them, and she’s more beautiful than all the princesses combined.

It’s easily his baby girl’s favorite room.

The best thing is that his study next door has an entrance that opens right into the library, so all afternoon he can drop in on her easily. He peeks in on her and finds her lying on her tummy, flipping through a book with her legs in the air. Her toenails are painted cherry red, and they flex in the warm air.

“Is everything alright, daddy? You’ve been standing there for a while.”

“I’m fine, baby.” He wants to bite the perfect arch of her foot.

They have a large pool outside the house, and Stéphanie likes to take a dip in the cool water when it’s still hot but the heat is just starting to die down. As the sun stretches towards the horizon, Stéphanie puts on an adorable little bikini—her daddy has bought her loads, in all sorts of different cuts and patterns—and today’s is a polka-dotted halter top and matching bottoms. The top is slightly padded, to add to the illusion of curves, and the bottoms keep everything tucked away. She lounges on a deck chair in front of the pool, a tangle of slender limbs. Her tummy is flat, but with just the barest trace of baby fat still clinging to it.

He loves it.

She’s not allowed to swim laps because he doesn’t want her shoulders to get any broader, so she just takes little dips to cool herself down in the swelling heat, lies back on the giant inflatable unicorn pool float for hours with a book or a magazine in hand, her sunglasses perched high on her darling nose. A trickle of sweat runs down her sweet brow.

After dinner—pan-seared sea bass, excellent as always—Chris likes to bathe with her, taking care to wash her everywhere. She’s a big girl now, but it’s an indulgence from their first few weeks together that he’s reluctant to give up. He runs a wet cloth over her skin, holding her close to his chest and thumbing her sensitive, puffy nipples into hard little nubs, making her writhe against him. He runs his hands over her body to make sure she’s clean and smooth and hairless for him, and is pleased to see that his spread palms span almost the entire diameter of her tiny waist. The water ripples around them. He leans forward and they kiss, tongues tangling. It’s wet and hot and exquisite. She whimpers against his lips.

Besides, she can’t bathe herself, because he needs to unlock her chastity belt to properly clean her.

Next is bedtime. Chris adores bedtime. He likes seeing his baby girl in her ivory silk slip and matching panties, all creamy skin and wet, curling hair. He towels her off, laces her into her corset and blow-dries her hair—it’s not curly like his first daughter’s, but tumbles past her shoulders in dark waves—and combs the tangles out.

Her bedroom is every little girl’s dream. The furniture was commissioned in a matching vintage style with romantic flourishes. Sitting squarely in the place of honour is a gorgeous four-poster bed, covered with pastel-pink bedsheets, throw pillows and soft toys, and flanked by gauzy white curtains. At its foot is a stuffed ottoman, with tomorrow’s outfit placed upon it. The bedframe is made of the same white wood as the wardrobe and bedside tables. The vanity top is scattered with makeup pots and tins and brushes, bottles of nail polish and _eau de parfum_ standing sentry next to moisturizers and lotions.

They cuddle on her bed and he reads to her a little bit, nuzzling the slender column of her throat, before drawing the curtains and making sure she gets ample rest.

Then he goes into his study do some more work. There are hunters to keep in line, his investments to manage, werewolves to hunt. It’s a hard life, but, as he sits back in his chair with two fingers of amber whiskey in his glass and his little girl sleeping soundly not two doors away, he thinks it’s not a bad one at all.

#

“I want to sleep under the stars,” she says, just before he slides her lace nightgown over her body. He pauses, watching her carefully. She fidgets before him, still naked. 

“It’s a nice night,” he says at last, giving in. He rubs this thumb over her bare hip, making her shiver. “I don’t see why not.”

They bring mats out, piling them high with blankets and cushions. Mme Forgeron makes them a midnight snack of cut fruits and hot chocolate in a basket if they should get hungry. Chris lets his baby girl change into something a little more comfortable—a cotton camisole and comfortable, baggy pants—because he knows that the summer nights can get a little chilly.

The stars are majestic that night. It was a cloudless summer day, and when darkness falls the stars are brilliant and numerous enough to illuminate the entire garden. He can see all the way to the property line. Her lithe, colt-like legs, stretched delicately out before them, look cast in silver.

When he glances over at her, he chooses to believe her eyes are bright not with unshed tears but with the reflection of a billion pinpricks of light.

He wakes at 5 a.m., just before the sun starts to peek over the horizon, and carries his little girl to her bed. With a warm cloth, he wipes down her feet, which are damp with morning dew.

When he starts to move away, he realises she’s gripping his nightshirt in a tight little fist.

#

The turning point in their relationship happens on a sweltering July afternoon. They’ve just finished lunch, and Chris has gone to inspect the sunroom that he is renovating. It juts out from the main building, all glass windows held up with strong wooden beams. He wants it to serve as a space in between the house and the pool, where they can have afternoon tea on comfortable wicker chairs, looking out over the French garden and the pool. When she wants, Stéphanie will be able to step in and grab herself a snack or pour herself some of that delicious pink lemonade that Mme Forgeron ensures is always stocked in the fridge.

“I’m going to the library, daddy,” she informs him, her voice high and trilling, like a baby bird’s. The medication is working so well. He waits, and she pecks him on the cheek as she should, and begins to depart.

The problem with the sunroom is that glass is tricky to work with—the measurements need to be precise and accurate, and the load-bearing pillars need to be exactly the right size and number. It would be easier if he could bring in as many contractors as possible to get the job done, but as it is, there are only a handful of men he would trust around the house. 

He pulls a cigarette from a packet and makes to light it.

Instantly, it’s gone. There’s barely a flash of pale skin, and then the cigarette is on the ground, crumpled as a patent leather Mary Jane-clad foot crushes it. He distinctly remembers buying those from Manolo Blahnik and he is pleased to confirm that they’re just the right size, and that Stéphanie is getting used to her heels too.

Good girl.

“You _know_ those are bad for you, dad!” his daughter snaps, two spots of color high on her cheeks.

And then she blanches.

“Daddy,” she whispers, starting to tremble. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

Chris knows. It’s no secret that the Beacon Hills sheriff was not in the pink of health, fond of sugary snacks and a good strong drink—or two, or three. Without a wife, it had fallen to his son to take care of him. He was constantly monitoring his father’s diet, snatching donuts out of his hands and swapping meat patties out for tofu burgers.

And now it’s spilled over.

“No need to apologize, baby,” he says, mild. He kisses her, nothing more than a chaste peck on the lips, to show no harm done. Internally, he’s crowing with triumph. “And you’re right, daddy shouldn’t be smoking. Those things _are_ bad.”

He smiles at her, and she returns it, uneasily, and then disappears into her books.

That incident signifies a watershed moment in the history of their entwined existence. It marks a shift in his daughter’s perspective, shows that she’s begun to see Chris as a loved one, that she’s starting to truly care for him.

Sure, it’s a holdover from her past life, but her past self is precisely why Chris chose her. Her spark, her loyalty, her capacity of kindness. She reminds him so much of his previous girl.

So, he rewards her. It’s only fair given how well she’s been behaving, and no father wants to rely only on negative reinforcement. He just wants the best for her.

She starts wearing a vibrating butt plug beneath her chastity belt, the wide silicone base resting on the divot of her ass, and he beams every time he makes her gasp in pleasure.

#

The first time Chris makes love to his daughter is three months after her arrival in France.

He stopped drugging her weeks ago, instead giving her a placebo each morning. She doesn’t know it, but now she’s submitting to him of her own free will. Every time she obeys a command, every time she says “yes, daddy” and lets him manhandle her—it’s all entirely consensual.

Stéphanie has been so good all day, calling him daddy and twirling in her little lace sundress when he asked, so Chris was generous with the use of the vibrator. He reels her in by her waist, presses her body against his so that she can feel how much he wants her. By nightfall, she’s breathing heavily, flushed and squirming in her silk panties.

“Do you want daddy to make you feel good?” Chris asks. He’s been so patient, slowly bringing her around and getting her to realise how much she loved and needed him. All he wants is to dote on her. He’s waited for this moment for a long time.

“Yes, please, daddy,” she says, her eyes glinting with tears.

It’s all he needs to hear.

He unlocks her chastity belt and lowers himself to inspect her. It’s always a mild shock to the system, to see how her cocklet hangs small and bare and limp between her legs. He can feel his dick swelling at how cute and small she’s become.

“Lift your slip for me, baby girl, show me those lovely tits,” he tells her instead, and she obeys at once, blushing furiously.

They’re gorgeous. They haven’t grown that much, as Deaton said, but the nipples are full and perky. He tweaks one, just to hear her chirp at the sensation.

“Aren’t you darling,” he murmurs, palming a breast. 

Chris kisses her soft, lax mouth, biting down on that plush lower lip so that she moans, and then moves to suck on her tits. Stéphanie mewls, raising her gown higher, her hand clenching in the fabric. He mouths and suckles on her nipples until they become raised and dark and hard. She’s rocking her hips against him, pleading beautifully, as he sucks a lovely bruise onto the fair skin of her throat.

He runs his hands up her soft, smooth thighs, parting them and shuffling closer between them. He licks her core gently—how clean and exquisite she tastes. She’s sobbing piteously. “Please, daddy, please—_ah—_please!”

He reaches for the bottle of strawberry scented lube on the nightstand and works two fingers into her after pulling her vibrator out. He strokes her, gentle at first, then a little rough with impatience, until she’s a sobbing, quivering mess.

Even with all the prep, she still cries out when he first thrusts into her. Her tears are only natural; because every little girl’s first time is emotional, especially when her body is being injected daily with estrogen. He pulls out immediately, the blunt cockhead kissing her entrance, slyly teasing, before slamming back in until he’s fully sheathed. She _wails,_ her back arching wondrously. He presses a kiss to her bare shoulder, and begins to fuck her slow, but hard, burying himself in her over and over again, showing his Stéphanie just how thoroughly her daddy loves her.

After he cums, he slips the vibrator back into her fucked-out hole, careful to keep his cum inside. The skin around the plug is puffy and slightly swollen from use. He can’t wait to go again.

He turns it back on and latches onto her clit with his mouth, sucking and laving at the sensitive flesh until she shudders around him and climaxes with a silent scream. She doesn’t have actual cum anymore, more like a dry orgasm, which is perfectly fine with him. His little girl is growing up just like how he wants her. 

As he pulls the soft, baby pink bedcovers up to her shoulders, he can’t help fantasizing about expanding their family. It’s the easiest thing to imagine, with his cum still warm in his daughter’s pussy.

Maybe he’ll ask Dr Deaton the next time he comes to visit.


End file.
